The Next Breath
by QueenYoda
Summary: Takes place directly after episode 1x04, The Good Soldier. Aramis has just buried Marsac, and the pain of the past raises doubts about his worthiness to be the lone survivor of Savoy. Can his brothers find him before he refuses to draw his next breath?
1. Chapter 1

_"We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men-living and dead- who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract."_

-Abraham Lincoln _"The Gettysburg Address"_

* * *

Aramis couldn't breathe.

Normally, he wouldn't have noticed. He had been a soldier for nearly half his life, after all, traveling often and widely, seeing wonders and horrors usually hidden from public view. This, he recalled, was not the first nor the last time he had ever found himself at a loss for air.

When in the embrace of a spirited or lovely woman for instance, he found that his lungs would suddenly malfunction. In the adrenaline-fueled rush of battle, it was as if breathing were elusive knowledge, far beyond him. More often, when encountered with the undying fidelity or decency of his brothers, Aramis suddenly felt as if his very heart were being constricted.

Not that he would ever tell them that.

Aramis had felt that… That eternal _kinship_ with Marsac once. Hell, in the beginning that bond had been the only thing spewing from their mouths. They would stand on street corners and regale recruits and strangers about how the Musketeer Garrison would one day embody the French creed.

Fraternity, equality, liberty.

 _But when they needed me, I could only lay there and watch. Waiting for a reprieve I didn't deserve._

 _"_ _Better to die a Musketeer…"_ He cringed as his friend's final breaths resonated within him. Marsac. One of his oldest friends, a man whom he had once called brother. He was lying in the ground now, cold and frozen like the other twenty Musketeers. Gone.

 _Better to die a Musketeer._ Aramis gulped as he stared a moment down at the sword he had stuck into the hard ground. He should get back to the Garrison, but suddenly he was exhausted, and what was more, he felt as if his soul were empty. Just… Bare. Hollow.

The pain of first seeing and then seeking the truth alongside his old friend had scourged him clean.

Aramis knew he should leave, but he could not bring himself to move. He couldn't even tear his eyes from the grave. Where would he go anyway? Not to the Garrison. Not to any tavern or his mistresses in Paris. They would not be able to help him. Aramis gently rubbed his forehead as a desperate pounding began behind his temple. A sob built in his chest. He choked it back down.

When he was a child, and sadness would envelop him, he would hide in his father's wine vineyards. Curled in the underbrush of tangled grapes he would inhale sharply and pray in his mother's language. As he matured, the shooting range would become his sanctuary. Yet neither of those places- he was sure he could find an equivalent if he dared- were what he needed. Aramis sighed. He was a man broken in too many places for human company. His soul was meant for God's hands now.

 _Have mercy on me,_ he prayed as he turned on his heel and stalked into the wet and cold toward hallowed ground.

 _Treveille's eyes racked them both up and down, noting the perfect stillness of their military stance, honed from years of being at attention and eyes intelligent and wary from battle. These were experienced soldiers. Their commander had told him they were good men. He would be the judge._

 _"_ _What's your name, soldier?"_

 _"_ _Marsac, sir. This is my friend, Aramis." Friend. These men were not new to each other then._

 _"_ _And what makes you think you are worthy to be the King's personal guards?" Musketeers. That was the name he would give to his new regiment. Treveille had been traveling all of France for weeks now, and had only managed to find eight men. The smile that Marsac gave in reply was infectious, but Treveille managed to keep a straight face. His friend, on the other hand, smiled easily. His eyes sparkled._

 _"_ _Why, Aramis here is the best shot in all France, sir. No lie," Treveille cocked a brow._

 _"_ _There are a great many marksmen in France, soldier," he informed him dryly. Marsac nodded confidently._

 _"_ _And Aramis could out-do them all"_

 _"_ _There is not a better scout in the world than Marsac, sir," Aramis broke in, just as loyally. "He's so good at sneaking about and ambush that the lieutenant asks after his advice when planning his attack strategies," and now he was impressed._

 _"_ _We make a good team sir," Marsac said. "I sneak up on the enemy and startle them so bad they panic, and then Aramis picks them off from the bushes," he said. Treveille looked at Aramis._

 _"_ _Can you handle a sword?" Aramis nodded, grinning._

 _"_ _As well as any soldier. My specialty is the rifle, but…" he shrugged. "I have to keep up with Marsac somehow."_

 _Marsac snorted, and some of their experience faded, leaving behind the beginnings of… Something. Something Treveille had not seen nor thought to look for in the others. Brotherhood. "He's being modest. I often find he's taken out half my opposition before I can so much as pull out my dagger."_

 _"_ _Ooh, what a story. Didn't you tell it to that maiden in Lyon last week?"_

 _"_ _I was thinking of Rochelle, month before."_

 _"_ _Marsac, you traitor! I told you to wait for me in Rochelle!"_

 _"_ _One thing Aramis isn't particularly good at is having realistic expectations, sir," Marsac snickered to Treveille, conspiratorially. Aramis opened his mouth but before he could continue with the bickering, Treveille cleared his throat._

 _"_ _Gentleman," while he did appreciate humor, what these two had bordered on the edge of unprofessionalism. Or perhaps friendship, true and unfettered._

 _Treveille was intrigued. "Let's see if your words are true or not." The answering smiles he received were enough to make him believe that perhaps, his Musketeers could be more than just a regiment devoted to King and Country after all. It could be a true symbol for all that France stood for. Equality, liberty, fraternity._

 _One for all. And all for one._

Treveille sighed as he stared down at what had become of his unprecedented idea and a moment of the King's undivided attention. Two ingredients that, years later, he knew were a miracle in and of themselves. That was what his Musketeers were. A miracle.

And he had thrown away twenty miracles for the sake of one French spy. Leaving two- now one- survivor.

The Garrison bustled beneath him. Marsac's assassination attempt had not gone unnoticed, and Aramis's evident grief for his friend had also not been ignored. By now the rumors would have started. Wild speculations about Aramis's relationship with the deserter, Treveille's involvement with his sudden reappearance…

Quelling wagging tongues was not an extra chore he needed or wanted. Treveille sighed, reaching up to massage his temples, where a migraine was beginning to throb. _I will not worry about this now,_ he decided. He trusted that Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan would handle those rumors with _expedience._

Or else he would, with mercilessness.

There was not a soldier stronger than Aramis, and Treveille had caused him enough pain for a lifetime. The least he owed him was a barricade against embarrassment. _Speaking of which,_ he thought as suddenly three horses ambled into the Garrison, their riders looking worn but motivated. Treveille sighed. His day had not begun easy and it did not appear as if it would end that way either.

It was only a matter of time until… Yes, yes it looked like it was happening now. Gerald was speaking to a dismounted Athos, his gestures wild as he indicated the storage room where Marsac's blood was being scrubbed from the floors by recruits eager to please. Athos's brows scrunched in obvious worry as the story progressed, Porthos and D'Artagnan wandering over after a moment.

Treveille turned away from his window and closed his eyes. He did not want to witness the abject horror when they discovered what had happened to Marsac. Neither did he want the recrimination when they found out that he had helped Aramis bury him, and then just _left_ him standing there in the cold.

 _Yet how do I explain it?_ He despaired. _How do I tell them that every moment I see Aramis, he reminds me of the sacrifice I was forced to make? The terrible things I have done? How do I tell them that my soul aches when I stare into his eyes because of how dearly I have failed him- you all?_

As if his thoughts had been a summons, he suddenly heard the pound of footsteps as the three of them raced up the stairs to his office. Treveille let a small smile grace his features when Athos (certainly, he was the one insistent upon etiquette) rapped upon his door. Bracing himself, he turned to the window again. "Come."

They piled in without hesitation. "Captain," Athos greeted. Without looking, Treveille knew that his eyes were studying the back of his body like a hawk, searching for any signs that he was injured. Porthos and D'Artagnan would be doing the same, no doubt.

At length, D'Artagnan cleared his throat pointedly. "Captain? We heard there was a…" he glanced between Athos and Porthos. " _Commotion_. Are you alright?" Treveille would have snorted had he the energy.

"I am fine, D'Artagnan, it isn't me you should worry about," he heard Porthos inhale a sharp breath. "First," he said firmly as the big man opened his mouth to inquire. "The mission. How did it go?" He looked to Athos, silently imploring him to understand. Thankfully, Athos did. With the same objective, clipped tones as always, he summarized their findings and outcome. Treveille listened intently until he was done before nodding.

"Well, good to know I was not the _only_ one busy today," he harrumphed, gingerly taking a seat in his desk chair.

"Now," Porthos said firmly. "What's this about an assassination? And where's Aramis?" He asked. Treveille folded his hands atop the desk and regarded them all solemnly, weighing his options. When he had analyzed each choice- and the possible disaster it could induce- he eventually settled on the unpopular preference for many leaders, the right choice.

"You may want to take a seat," he informed them tiredly. "And close the door. What I am about to tell you does not go beyond this room- _ever_. The only reason I am telling it to you is because," he gave a reluctant half-shrug. "If you three are in any way going to help your brother, you must know the truth," and now they all looked terrified.

"Captain?" When he saw he would get no immediate response, Athos hastened to close the door. Porthos swiveled one chair around, straddling it. His stare was attentive, pleading. Athos leaned against the back wall, arms crossed and face expressionless. D'Artagnan took a seat on the other chair, clasping his hands in his lap attentively.

"Tell us this first- is Aramis alright?" Porthos demanded.

Treveille hesitated. _Define alright._ "Aramis is alive and well. Physically, at any rate," the relief on their faces (or in Athos's case in his eyes) made Treveille feel all the worse for what he was about to tell them. "But mentally…" He sighed. He was doing this for Aramis, because he owed that man this and so much more. "Five years ago, I was given orders to reveal the location of Musketeers in Savoy. I had sent them there…"

* * *

An hour later, his story was done, and for the first time in over five years, his soul felt scoured clean. As if his punishment for the death of those innocent men had finally been absolved from his mind and heart. Treveille inhaled a deep breath, freed.

And met three horrified sets of eyes.

"You…" Porthos voice trembled with ire. "You sent Musketeers out to slaughter?!" And just as he assumed, his involvement in the Savoy Massacre was a threat against one of their own. Treveille hoped Porthos wouldn't want to give him a slow death.

"I did not send them with that intention," he corrected dryly. Porthos didn't look convinced. "Dammit, Porthos, you know I would never do such a thing! I care about those under my command too much," he said, a bit hurt that their loyalty in him had been so easily shaken.

"But you care about France more," Athos pointed out. He stared hard at the ground before him, as if reliving the same deep unsettlement that forced him to the tavern night after night. "Your duty is to uphold the law, follow your orders. In order to do that, you had to make the call for Savoy. Even knowing what it could possibly mean," Treveille nodded slowly, taken aback by Athos's soft understanding. D'Artagnan and Porthos both blinked at their friend, sympathy in their eyes.

"Tell that to Aramis now, aye?" Porthos said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, returning to Treveille. "You couldn't have told him earlier, at least? Spared him all this when Marsac came knockin? Didn't you think _he_ at least deserved to know?" Of course he had. Treveille had fretted over it so often that finally he had just come to accept that he was going to Hell for what he had done.

But Aramis's easy forgiveness had also freed him from his demons. "You must understand… I was ordered never to tell anyone. I could be arrested and executed even for telling _you_ , and not only that… Should the duke ever learn that Aramis survived the attack, he would demand his head on a platter. And Louis would oblige if only to keep his sister safe," that made Porthos pale. Athos's shoulders rose and dropped slowly, as if he were trying to release a sudden bout of tension in his chest.

"Isn't this just spectacular?" Porthos grumbled, collapsing into his chair heavily. "Not only is he the sole survivor, but he has to live knowing he killed the man who saved him?" Porthos shook his head, running a trembling hand through thick black curls. "As if he didn't have enough undeserved demons," he lamented.

Treveille sighed and pushed himself back from his chair, standing. "Aramis was one of my original ten, Porthos," he reminded the other man, sadly. "I would wish no more pain upon him than you would. But… He has already buried Marsac. Already buried any ill-will," Treveille told them. "He forgave me," it made his heart contract with admiration and gratitude.

He had expected to be scorned and hated after this confession- especially were he to tell Aramis. He would not have been surprised, and perhaps that is why he fought so hard to keep the truth a secret. Facing justice was different when the man you had wronged was someone whose respect and loyalty you _cherished_.

Porthos let out a half laugh, half snort. "That's our Mis," he agreed, with a reluctant smile at Athos, who nodded with a faint quirk of the mouth.

"And he may have forgiven you, captain, but that doesn't mean he's forgiven himself," the swordsman added.

"Surely he must know he's done nothing wrong," D'Artagnan cried, astounded. "He did the admirable thing! He saved the captain!"

Porthos met D'Artagnan's young eyes, sorrowfully. "In his mind, he won't see it that way. He'll see it as murdering a brother and not only that, but the man who saved his life, the most despicable of sins. Do you know how long it's going to take us to convince him to pick up a pistol again? To trust us?" The last question made Treveille inhale sharply in confusion. The mere idea of these men not trusting one another was ludicrous to him.

"Why in the world would he doubt _your_ loyalty?" he demanded.

Athos, D'Artagnan and Porthos all cringed. "We may have… Taken your side a bit," D'Artagnan explained sheepishly. "When Marsac came crying foul play. Hell, had this investigation gone a bit longer, we were thinking of just turning Marsac in against Aramis's wishes," Porthos and Athos stared at D'Artagnan with raised brows and amazed expressions.

"We never said that aloud."

D'Artagnan shrugged uncomfortably. "What? I know you two were thinking it too! No one liked Marsac- and we all thought Aramis wasn't in his right mind." Now Treveille understood, and he cringed from the guilt he felt growing in his heart again. If he had somehow inadvertently caused a rift in between these four, the closest four he had ever seen… It would be a worse sin than Savoy itself.

"We weren't _wrong,_ per se," Athos pointed out, though he shifted feet as if restless to leave. "Marsac was using Aramis's guilt and compassion against him, and we all knew it."

"Doesn't matter," Porthos grunted simply. "We're brothers. Should have trusted him, helped him through it instead of turning away when he started spouting stuff we didn't like. After all, how many times has he bent the rules for _us_?"

Treveille wanted to know that too, but he dared not ask. Not when the three of them looked like kicked puppies and he was the root of their despair. He shook his head free of those thoughts. "Well, what are you moping around for?" he snapped. "You say you are brothers. Go find him. I'm sure he could benefit from hearing all this himself. You've two days before I assign you to another mission. Until then the regiment will have to do without," he nodded, softening his tone. "Bring him home, and remember, for Aramis's sake as much as your own, _this never happened_."

"No," Athos spoke out, finally looking Treveille in his face. Treveille had to consciously stop himself from looking away from such dangerous eyes. "Savoy happened, Captain. For as long as Aramis will remember, so shall we." his eyes blazed. "I trust it won't happen again." He didn't phrase it as a question. Treveille smiled sadly.

"You know I cannot promise you that."

"Then we'll promise each other," D'Artagnan stated boldly, standing. "After all, I know from personal experience that there's something to be gained from pain. One for all, right?" Treveille cocked a brow. Athos and Porthos grinned.

"You're learning, sprout," Porthos chuckled, ruffling the younger man's hair fondly. "You're learning."


	2. Chapter 2

"How many hiding places does Aramis _have_?" D'Artagnan bit from between clenched teeth as Athos stood on his shoulders, discreetly peering into the second-floor window of… D'Artagnan did not remember. He had not wanted to know.

"Do the chambers of his mistresses count?" Athos inquired dryly, sounding as irritated as D'Artagnan felt. After three hours in the cold and rain, he was tempted to suggest that perhaps Aramis did not _want_ to be found, and they should respect his wishes for once and retire until morning. Treveille had given them two days after all.

Yet D'Artagnan knew that his suggestion would be taken exactly as it was- a joke. None of them were any more capable of abandoning one of their own as they were of chopping off their own feet. It wasn't in them, that was why D'Artagnan so loved his brothers. "He only has one right now," Porthos growled from where he stood next to D'Artagnan on lookout duty. Steady rivulets of rain ran down his neck from his black curls.

"How chivalrous of him," D'Artagnan huffed. "Porthos, why aren't _you_ holding Athos up… And Athos, why are you this _heavy_?"

"Are you implying something, D'Artagnan?" Athos inquired politely while one boot dug viciously into D'Artagnan's shoulder, taking his breath away.

"No! No!" he wheezed, cringing. "Porthos, would you please _help me?_ "

"Stop playing around you two," ordered Porthos, anxiously. "We've got to find…"

"What are you boys doing?" A quiet voice suddenly demanded, sounding flabbergasted. D'Artagnan jumped halfway out of his skin such was his fright. Subsequently, that made Athos stagger from his shoulder right on top of Porthos, who then collapsed beneath the weight in the middle of drawing his sword.

D'Artagnan swung around, a startled cry halfway out of his mouth as he leveled a pistol right into the face of…

A clergyman.

"Pastor!" D'Artagnan cried, mortified. He quickly put his pistol away, blushing furiously as Athos and Porthos detangled themselves on the ground behind him.

 _So much for the great Musketeers,_ D'Artagnan thought, trying to shield the sight of his two cursing and unbecoming brothers with his own body. "Forgive us. We're um… Er… On Musketeer business. Very important business for the King. Involving that room. Up there. Please carry on with your day, no need to bother with us," he tried to explain.

"I see," the pastor replied, in a subtle tone of voice that implied he did not believe a word of what D'Artagnan said, and probably believed him guilty of committing the sin of lying quite often.

"Pastor Dareau!" Porthos suddenly exclaimed as he found his way into a standing position again, hauling Athos up by the arm as he did so. "We were just about to come pay you a visit, monsieur," he said.

"Uh huh," the pastor snorted, this time with obvious dubiety.

"Have you seen Aramis?" Athos wondered, gently forcing himself forward.

Now the Pastor's face softened. He pulled his furred hood closer to his head, glancing at the stormy skies. "I have. That is why I came. I stopped by the Garrison but your Captain mentioned you three would probably be out doing… _Something of importance_ ," again that tone of supreme doubt. At this rate, D'Artagnan could hardly blame him.

"No matter. Aramis came to my chapel earlier today. He is… In a bad way. For reason's only the Almighty may know, you poor fools seem to have a calming influence on him. For his sake, I've sought you out," he sighed. "And now I understand where he gets his _negative_ habits from," Pastor Dareau harrumphed, glancing pointedly up at the window they had been peeking into. D'Artganan found himself blushing again.

"Oh that?" Porthos inquired nervously, eyes following where the Pastor was obviously staring at. "We weren't…"

"Obviously, Aramis doesn't tell you what he does with his spare time," D'Artagnan snickered, only to then yelp as Athos rammed an elbow into his ribs.

"Ow! Athos!"

"Forgive us father," Athos went on, diplomatically. "Would it be a great imposition for you to lead us to him? We've been searching for Aramis for _hours_." The pastor nodded.

"That is why I've come. Follow me, gentleman," heaving a small sigh of relief and apprehension both, the three of them trailed the pastor. They only passed a few people on their way, mainly determined merchants and rushed businessmen but eventually made it to a small chapel, a crooked old building bathed in white. It was a far cry from the Notre Dame but D'Artagnan knew that many of the orphans in Paris came here during winter. Most other churches turned them away, not wishing their congregation to see grubby faces or get pickpocketed by desperate hands.

It would make sense that Aramis would be here, so much so that D'Artagnan was almost embarrassed that they did not think of it sooner. "Should have come here first," Porthos grumbled in agreement from behind him.

They reached tall wooden doors. "Come in, come in! Before you catch your death!" The pastor cried, hustling them inside with a wave of his hand. The three of them piled in to see a rounded cavern full of mahogany wooden chairs all facing a dais, where a large statue of Jesus on the Cross stood, a testament to the kind of suffering that was universal, unnamable, unspeakable…

And the redemption that followed.

It felt like safety. D'Artagnan breathed in the warm scent of dried apples and candles. "Here," the pastor handed them dry blankets. "Dry yourselves, for goodness sakes. And hand me those weapons. I'll not have them in this House. It'll frighten the children," he tsked.

"Dare we refuse?" Athos asked Porthos dryly.

"He thinks we're riff-raff anyway," Porthos considered.

The pastor did not look impressed by their bravado. "Well, I suppose if you don't _want_ to see Aramis…"

The three of them handed their weapons over with such speed it made the other man chuckle as he took the swords, daggers and pistols affably. "Ah, I knew you'd come to your senses," he handed the bundle to a smiling nun before turning to them and patting Porthos on the cheek gently.

"I _know_ you are riff-raff, my son. But I also know that should one listen to the way Aramis carries on about you three, you are the best of men… And beloved friends. My Lord only decrees that we should love each other. No less, no more. So long as that is done, then being riff-raff only marks you as unique," he informed them with a smile that reminded D'Artagnan of his own father. He smiled back. The frowned, as something occurred to him.

"He talks about _me_?" He asked, befuddled. Pastor Dareau laughed.

"Of course. D'Artagnan, isn't it? The dashing youngster who challenged Athos to a duel last year? You've become the children's favorite story," he chuckled

D'Artagnan looked at Athos. _Story?_ He mouthed. Athos nodded, and one side of his mouth quirked into a smile.

"Aramis comes here to see the children when he can. He's become quite adept at storytelling, so I hear," he told him.

"Against my better judgment. He'll have recruited half of my children by the time they come of age, all the stories he tells of the great Musketeers! When he first came to Paris, he and Marsac would waltz in together and spin tales like they were born to it," for a moment, the friendly face fell into sorrow. "Such a terrible thing to lose a man like Marsac," D'Artagnan exchanged a startled glance with Athos. The Pastor chuckled sadly. "Aramis only mentioned that Marsac was dead. I can tell when he is not allowed to divulge anymore. My father was a soldier," he nodded. "I know the life."

D'Artagnan could have sat down in relief. "Thank you for your compassion," Athos said. "And for coming to us. Marsac's death has rattled him. We've been… Concerned," for Athos to admit such a thing meant that he had been more than just _concerned_ , but the pastor only nodded, a wise twinkle in his eyes.

"I care for all my children," he replied simply. "Come. He's this way with the newest orphans, seeking peace from whatever haunts him," _or whoever haunts him._

Leading them down an adjacent hallway, the pastor stopped at an open doorway. Inside was a room only slightly larger than D'Artagnan's room at Constance's inn. In the middle of the room, a rocking chair slowly creaked back and forth. On the floor surrounding it, dozens of children laid in various positions of sleep. D'Artagnan felt his heart clench.

Aramis was rocking a swaddled baby in his arms, looking down into the innocent features with such raw despondence that it made D'Artagnan inhale deeply as pain stabbed his own heart. He hated to see Aramis so… Devastatingly miserable.

"Aramis," Pastor Dareau called softly. No reaction from the other man. He was rocking with such a fierceness that it looked more as if he were in pain rather than he were trying to soothe the infant.

"Aramis," Porthos tried, louder. This time Aramis blinked as if coming from a dream, and looked up. When he saw it was them, he smiled a bit.

"Ah. I'm sorry father. I was just about to put her to sleep," he gestured to the baby with a nod of his head.

"She is already asleep, Aramis," The pastor pointed out patiently. "I see you've managed to wrangle them all into a similar state. It figures, these little ones share your wild heart," he harrumphed, coming forward to gently ease the girl into his own arms. Aramis relinquished her reluctantly.

"Ah, they aren't so bad, father. Just curious, and filled with kindness," Aramis looked down at the babies. "So much kindness," he whispered.

Pastor Dareau gave the three of them a helpless look that eloquently screamed _'you see what I mean?'_

"Yes, that is true," he sighed, resting one hand on Aramis's shoulder. "Up then. Your work is done, and your friends have been soaked to the bone searching for you. Get them blankets from the closet and into the den with the four of you poor fools. Make a fire," now that D'Artagnan looked, he could see a small puddle accumulating on the floor from them, and Aramis's clothes stuck to him with wet clinginess. Obviously they were not the only ones who had received a soaking.

"We couldn't," Athos interjected as Aramis looked them over.

"What in the world possessed you all to leave the Garrison in this weather?!" Aramis demanded, as he stood. He would start fussing now.

"You've little wood as it is, and we don't want to be another burden. You have other, more important charges after all," Athos glanced pointedly at the children. The pastor shook his head adamantly.

"We are all equally as precious in the eyes of God," he informed Athos staunchly. "I'll send one of the older children to fetch me more wood in the morning. For now, go and get warm. I insist."

Not giving them another opportunity to argue, he turned on his heel and vanished back into the hall with his sleeping baby. For a moment, the four of them stood in a semi-circle, a bit unsure about how to go on. Then, Aramis sighed and gestured for them to follow.

Stepping like a condemned man, he lead them to an even _smaller_ room with a single long wooden bench seated before a large fireplace, he dug into the cupboards above the fire mantle and handed them wool blankets. Meanwhile, D'Artagnan and Athos started a fire wordlessly and Porthos peeled off his boots and jacket, setting them before the fire to dry. When all of this was done, they sat. Aramis knelt before the fire, gently prodding it with a metal rod.

D'Artagnan, Porthos and Athos all lowered themselves unto the bench and sat silently, listening to the fire suckle and the wet squelching of their socks as those were peeled as well.

Then, "How much do you know?" Aramis whispered, not meeting their eyes.

"Enough," Athos replied. Aramis twiddled the rod nervously.

"So you know that I killed Marsac?"

"We know you saved the Captain, even though he wronged you greatly," Aramis's eyes widened.

"Treveille told you…?" His question hung like a blade above them.

Porthos nodded. "He told us _everything,_ Mis."

Aramis's eyes widened with perceptible horror. "That fool! How could he?" Aramis hissed furiously. "Knowing that secret could cost you your lives!"

"What else was he supposed to do? Let you suffer in silence, while we worried ourselves into a rage because we knew you were hiding something and unable to help you?" Athos asked, with equal force. Aramis glared at him. D'Artagnan opted that as the newest member, it was alright if he stayed silent for now.

"Besides," Porthos snorted. "No one would believe us even if we said we hadn't known. If we're to be killed, I'd personally like to know why," he pointed out. D'Artagnan could have smacked his forehead when the word _killed_ suddenly caused Aramis to blink rapidly, his entire face contorted into pain. Porthos noticed too. "Ah, Mis," he moaned. "I'm sorry."

Aramis pushed the hair back from his face, exposing red-rimmed eyes. "No matter," he decided with a deep breath. "What you say is true anyway. You three are entirely too loyal to one such as I," he looked up with a watery smile. D'Artagnan's heart melted.

"Hey!" He interposed, breaking his vow of silence. "What's that about now? Goodness knows if any one of us were accused of something we'd all be brought up for it. Our loyalty is four-winged, _legendary_ ," he informed his friend. The other three gave him identical looks of surprise and amusement. D'Artagnan squirmed in place, feeling a bit like the naïve child. As usual.

 _"_ _What?"_

"Four-winged?" Aramis teased.

"I do believe he's intersected himself into our group," Athos agreed, sounding entertained. D'Artagnan blushed, a bit of doubt niggling behind his facade of confidence.

"Well, he's no objection from me, if that's the case," Porthos piped in cheerily, seeing his uncertainty. D'Artagnan smiled at him shyly.

Aramis stroked his chin and exchanged a playful glance with Athos. "I don't know, Porthos. I still feel as if I like Constance more," he said with mock thoughtfulness.

"He looks too much like a lost puppy. At least Constance can appear intimidating when the need arises," Athos agreed.

Porthos seemed to reconsider as he poked D'Artagnan in the ribs experimentally. "A skinny pup at that. Maybe that's what we ought to start calling him. Our puppy."

"Why do you three insist on mocking _me_?"

Aramis reached over to squeeze his knee comfortingly. "Forgive us, mon ami. It's the unfortunate side-effect of being our younger brother, I'm afraid. We're never going to allow you a personal life and protect you from needless threats as well. Overall, I feel you'll be very embarrassed to have us," he offered with some sympathy. D'Artagnan had been steadily grinning throughout the monologue, his entire being infused with light at those simple words.

Younger brother.

So, he was part of _The Inseperables._ He found himself blushing a deeper shade of red, causing Porthos to laugh and ruffle his hair again. D'Artagnan shoved his hand away. "Stop it! I'm only a few years younger than Athos," he griped affectionately.

Some light reappeared in Aramis's eyes. He set the rod against the fireplace, standing. "Athos was once our kitten too. Do you recall, Porthos?"

Athos's frown deepened. Porthos smiled mischievously. "I do. Aramis called him fluffy for a bit even, to make him angry."

Aramis snickered, swiping ash from his pants. "Did I ever stop?"

"If you want to keep your head on your shoulders, you won't start again," Athos warned. D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, crossing his arms as a chill made his spine tingle.

"You both know you could never harm a hair on his head," he said, puffing warm breath into his hands. Porthos arched a brow in his direction, chuckling.

"Is that a challenge?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Take it as you will." Aramis was looking decidedly more uncomfortable as the conversation went on. He squirmed in place, eyes darting from Athos to Porthos.

"Athos, you in?"

Athos was twiddling with his hat in his hands, paying enormous attention to the feather. "I think you can handle it."

"Wait, how did my being bodily harmed become a plan without my knowledge?" Before Aramis had even finished the sentence, Porthos was swinging himself upright and wrapping large muscular arms around Aramis's chest. "Oof! _Porthos,_ you oaf!" Aramis gasped as he was bear hugged from behind, immobilized by Porthos's strength and determination.

D'Artagnan laughed and clapped Athos on the shoulder. Porthos's mouth was next to Aramis's ear as he struggled weakly for escape, cursing in Spanish.

"How are you really, Mis?" Porthos suddenly asked, causing the smiles on their faces vanish and Aramis to still completely. For a long moment, there was silence, broken only by D'Artagnan puffing into his hands and the suckling of fire. Aramis had his eyes downcast, as if searching for an answer in the floorboards. They waited patiently.

"I'm a soldier, Porthos. I'm used to death," Aramis finally pointed out, tiredly. tiredly. Porthos narrowed his eyes and gave Aramis a tiny shake. Now D'Artagnan understood the game. They needed to get Aramis in a position where he could not run away from the questions or hide from reality.

"Shut your trap. The truth now," the larger man ordered imperiously. Aramis was silent a moment, his eyes trained on the fire and every muscle in his body tense. At last he spoke, and when he did it was in a whisper.

"I… I am empty, Porthos. My heart feels cold. Like Savoy. I suppose I deserve it, the same fate as Marsac. To have my soul die while my body is still living," D'Artagnan felt a lump in his throat. He looked to Athos, but the other man would not meet his eyes, instead gazing straight ahead without change.

"This ain't no penance, Aramis…"

"Then why? Tell me that, Porthos. I've begged for an answer for years and you convinced me once that living while they are dead is not a _punishment_. I believed it then, why now? Now, when twenty-one Musketeers lay frozen in the ground-" Aramis began struggling in earnest now, his movements becoming, vicious, uncontrolled, erratic- "Their murderer walks free because of the _stupid_ contraptions of court politics-" his elbow hit Porthos in the nose, causing a grunt and a sudden spurt of pain. Aramis did not even notice such was his thrashing. Athos stiffened.

"Aramis, Aramis stop!"

"My own captain who I thought was a good, decent man had a hand in it-"

Athos scrambled from his seat to grab Aramis' arms, attempting to restrain him. D'Artagnan fell to his knees next to Porthos, whose grip had not lessened. He tugged on his friend's arm as Aramis became more violent in his rage. "Porthos let him go!"

"My dead best friend comes back a deserter and assassin after he _abandoned_ me to _die_ in the forest-" here a sob from Aramis. Another grunt of pain from Porthos.

"Mis! Porthos!"

"And those I thought were my friends left me to find out the truth alone-" here Athos cringed. Porthos hugged Aramis tighter.

"And when I did, I made a choice. A choice to murder Marsac. A choice to accept the fact that my life- _your lives-_ are expendable at the whim of an undeserving king! What honor is there in that? What reason could I possibly have been spared if not to be abandoned and betrayed repeatedly!? Tell me! TELL ME!"

"ARAMIS!" D'Artagnan jumped as Athos's voice cracked through the air like lightning, shocking them all into stillness as they turned to him. Athos never raised his voice, and especially to them.

D'Artagnan followed Athos's furious gaze and felt alarm shoot through him. Porthos looked as if he had just been punched repeatedly. A steady trickle of blood wound down his nose, vanishing into the hairs of his beard. His eyes rolled dizzily. "Let him go, Porthos," Athos commanded, and this time none of them could disobey.

Porthos did so, his bulging arms going loose about Aramis. He sagged into D'Artagnan's grip. The next few seconds went by with such speed that it left D'Artagnan breathless. Without waiting for another episode to begin, Athos gipped Aramis by the collar of his jacket and hauled him upright, slamming him so hard against the wall to their left that Aramis's skull made a dull _crack_ against the stone.

"I _told_ you!" He snarled, sounding angrier than D'Artagnan had ever heard him. "I told you, Aramis, that if you kept sticking your nose into truths where it didn't belong, you'd find something you didn't like. Well, whatever devil possesses you now is the result, and look at what you've done!" He pointed to a swaying Porthos, who was holding his broken nose whilst allowing D'Artagnan to sling his arm about his shoulder, supporting him. Aramis's eyes widened with shock and regret.

"I…" he stammered, suddenly raising his arms and hands to see bruises and blood patterning his own flesh from where he had struck. He went pale with horror. "I didn't… Porthos, I didn't..." he reached out beseechingly, but Athos's strong arm across his chest halted him.

"Are you done now?"

Aramis blinked at Athos, and in the firelight D'Artagnan saw tears sparkling in his eyes. Porthos noticed too. "Ah, come on Athos…"

"Are you _done_ now?" Athos repeated in a protective growl, pressing closer. Aramis met his eyes desperately.

"Yes. _Yes,_ Athos. I'm done. Just let me… Porthos, I'm sorry, I didn't… Let me help, please," he waved vaguely at Porthos's wound, speech failing him as he tried to wriggle past Athos, who released him promptly with a sigh.

"I need a drink," he bemoaned. Aramis fell to his knees besides Porthos and D'Artagnan, his horrified eyes taking in each bruise and the blood soaking D'Artagnan's handkerchief. A tear ran down his cheek.

"Porthos, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, I didn't mean to hurt you," the normally eloquent man stammered, undoing the sash around his waist and pressing it to a cut on Porthos's forehead with trembling fingers.

"Ah, you know it's fine, Mis," Porthos said quickly, his bleeding nose clogging his words even as he eyed his friend with guilt. "I'm the one who refused to let you go even though I could tell you wanted to be." Aramis shook his head, and the anguish and reproach in his voice cut straight to D'Artagnan's heart.

"No. No, this only proves that I am a scourge upon you all. A bane on this Earth. I deserved to die at Savoy," he covered his mouth with one hand, his breaths coming out as short, fast pants past his tears. "Athos is right. I should have left well enough alone. Now I have become no better than Marsac. I do not deserve your loyalty," D'Artagnan was speechless with dismay. He could see Athos's expression morph from furious to despairing. " _I deserve to die_."

Porthos inhaled sharply. "Aramis," he breathed with such agony one would have thought Aramis had just stabbed him in the heart. "No. _No."_ But Aramis had already stood, his eyes devoid of anything but a sadness so deep it would have been enough to plumb oceans. His fists clenched at his sides as his eyes racked over them a last time, and then he was running so swiftly only his shadow was visible in the dim light.

"Aramis!" Athos called after him weakly. " _Aramis!"_

But he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Athos felt as if his heart breaking as he watched his brother leave. Suddenly, he regretted his harsh words, which though spurred by worry for Porthos had been unfair, and perhaps had cost him his brother.

 _I've lost my brother._

Athos gripped his heart, struggling to breathe past the panic that engulfed him. "Athos," Porthos heartbroken whisper drew his attention. He still had two more to take care of. "Our brother," Porthos looked up with haunted eyes. "What happened to our brother?"

The lively, hilarious Aramis they had both met over five years ago, nearly bursting with energy and cheer and flirtatiousness and life. So much life. He had whirled into their lives when they had been unsteady and untested in the regiment, and spun them to be the men they were today.

Athos couldn't bear the thought of him…

D'Artagnan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Keep pressure on that," he ordered Porthos, pointing to the bandage he held against his forehead. Aramis's bandage.

"It doesn't matter. Nothing does right now. We've gotta find him…"

"How?" D'Artagnan snapped wearily, surprising them both. "You know as well as I that no matter how long or hard we searched, we'd never find Aramis in the state he's in. Hell, _he_ probably doesn't know where he is," he said. D'Artagnan's cynicism gave Athos something to focus on. He arched a sardonic brow in their youngest's direction.

"What happened to loyalty?" He drawled.

"Yes, well, I'm not eager to watch him destroy himself. Are you, Athos?" The malice in his voice made Athos lower his eyes, ashamed. D'Artagnan sighed wholeheartedly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that how it sounded. Just… I can't watch him become like Marsac, Athos," D'Artagnan looked down, fidgeting with his fingers. "A dead soul trapped in a body… or worse. I don't know if I could live without Aramis."

"Yeah? I _know_ I couldn't," Porthos said angrily.

"He's not dead yet," Athos pointed out. He glanced at the passageway, weighing options. D'Artagnan was right. In this weather and with Aramis in such a state… It was highly unlikely they would ever find him. "We're going," he decided.

"Athos…"

One stern look quelled whatever D'Artagnan had been about to suggest. "Even should we not find him; I do not want to live with the knowledge that we did nothing for him when he needed us most. Do you?" He was gratified to see them both shake their heads immediately. Sighing, Athos stepped away from the wall and led the way into the pouring rain after their brother, D'Artagnan and Porthos close on his heels.

"I think I even know where to look first."

* * *

Aramis couldn't breathe, and this time it _was_ worrying. The rain might have been slamming into him with such force that it was flattening his ribcage. If it was, then it would have to wait a bit longer.

Aramis did not notice it when his toes and fingertips went numb from the cold and wet. He merely trudged through the downpour, following a memory that rung his heart out dry at each moment. Memories of… Screams.

Screams that drowned beneath the blood pooling his brother's throats, moans of pain gurgling in heaving chests, his own dazzling burst of pain that immobilized him in the freezing ground, the expression on Marsac's face as he trembled above Aramis's half-conscious body, wide eyes stuck on the carnage and a hand pressed to Aramis's chest.

These images bade him to walk through the rain towards a place he had sworn he would never visit again. Savoy called his name in steady strokes of rain and pain and blood and fear. He didn't know why he was going there- only that something beckoned him and he would not be dissuaded from following _. Perhaps,_ he contemplated as a crow flew overhead and landed in a tree next to him, black beady eyes trailing him from above _. It is death finally coming to take me._ _Perhaps it is justice finally being served…_

It didn't matter much, did it? Leaving all things that had made him Aramis before, he embarked on a journey after an unknown urging. Returning to the sight of the carnage.

* * *

Stealing (borrowing) horses from the Garrison in the dead of night was easier than Porthos thought it should have been. Then again, Porthos could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, and D'Artagnan could be downright scary when the opportunity presented itself. Porthos was convinced Athos knew what effect his glares had on people- particularly stable boys that did not want to argue with three of the greatest Musketeers at this time of night.

"Fine," the lad had cried, throwing his hands up as Athos and D'Artagnan mounted quickly. "Do as you wish. I'll let Treveille know later," the way he had said it indicated he did not believe that alerting Treveille would do much to reform their behavior. He was right.

Porthos did not have time to worry about that right now though. Aramis had a head start, but he was on foot. Pulling a scarf over his nose to protect from the insistent chill and wet, he pushed his horse faster through the rain. As soon as Athos had explained his idea, Porthos had known with a gut deep ache that they would find their absent brother exactly where they believed.

Savoy.

Porthos's heart shuddered in his chest. _Please don't do anything stupid, Mis,_ Porthos begged his friend internally. Aramis was one of the bravest, most stubborn men Porthos had ever met. He prayed that stubbornness and strength would hold him together just long enough for them to get there.

 _"_ _No. No, this only proves that I am a scourge upon you all. A bane on this Earth. I deserved to die at Savoy. Athos is right. I should have left well enough alone. Now I have become no better than Marsac. I do not deserve your loyalty._ _I deserve to die_."

 _Surely, he doesn't_ _ **believe**_ _that?_ Porthos heart had near been about to burst when he heard Aramis saying such terrible things. Porthos would have hit him had he not been in such agonizing guilt over the whole affair. Porthos knew that grief and stress had the capability to destroy the souls of men, but he had never expected it to get the better of _Aramis._

Not even five years ago when he had returned from Savoy and Porthos had had to spend several dozen nights sleeping at the foot of his friend's door, ready to snap awake at the first shout of grief or pain, and even readier to convince Aramis that the massacre had not been his fault.

They had barely known each other over three months by then, but Aramis had been such a strong influence on Porthos that the idea of leaving him to face such demons alone hadn't even crossed Porthos's mind. The three of them had managed a steady friendship built on mornings hauling Athos from the local bar, evenings drawing swords in defense of Porthos in back alleys, and days when Porthos traveled to the graveyard and sat before the tombs of those twenty Musketeers at Aramis's side.

Now they were more than friends, a unit that transcended mere affection. They lived in one another's pockets, their souls so intertwined that Porthos knew the corruption of one could take them all. _Savoy might have four more victims today,_ Porthos thought as their procession came across the dense wilderness. They pulled their horses to a stop.

"That doesn't look threatening at all," Athos drawled, eyeing the pitch blackness. Rain dripped from the edge of his hat. Dawn was fast approaching, but not fast enough, it would take a few more hours before the forest was light enough to navigate. Porthos had no doubt that Aramis had gone in anyway.

"Shouting is an option," he suggested.

"We're bound to get eaten by wolves anyway," D'Artagnan agreed, slinging himself from his horse. Porthos glared at him from the corner of his eye as he lowered himself to the ground. Not funny. Then, tying his horse's reigns to a nearby tree, he looked up at the looming branches above, dark and gloomy, and he inhaled deeply.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked down to see Athos eyeing the same sight calmly. As if he had been born to do this. "We'll find him Porthos," the knot in Porthos's stomach traveled up his gullet and sat in his throat, seeking release in tears.

"What if we're too late?" he inquired, choked by emotion. Athos shook his head and walked into the gloom.

"Shouting is an option," he reminded Porthos over his shoulder, confidently. "But _that_ is not."

* * *

Aramis was dizzy. Granted, this was not too surprising.

He had tripped after all. Down a very large hill at that, and he knew his head was bleeding because the rain running into his eyes was tinged pink and when it leaked unto his lips it tasted like iron.

Despite that, he kept going, heading towards the clearing without use of sight. He was so dizzy that the trees and stars rolled and swayed like waves. If he had anything more to vomit, he would have done so a few more times by now. His skin felt aflame. His head ached and the times when he stumbled, he crouched there a minute trembling. There was something dangerous in what he was doing, the logical part of him insisted. He was an idiot. He needed shelter, warmth, and to bandage his head.

He needed his brothers.

 _"_ _I told you. I told you, Aramis, that if you kept sticking your nose into truths where it didn't belong, you'd find something you didn't like. Well, whatever devil possesses you now is the result, and look at what you've done!"_

Aramis had never seen Athos so angry, not that he blamed him. Aramis had committed several unforgivable crimes that day, and it was only the guilt of those crimes that allowed him to stand when he had slipped on the mud and tumbled through the thick brush. Not strength. Not courage, not righteousness. He was empty of such things and perhaps had never possessed them in the first place.

 _"_ _He killed our friends, Aramis! Our friends!"_ There was not a single day that passed where he could forget such an event. It was Aramis's cowardice and idiocy that had permitted the ambushers to attack them that night. He had been one of the senior soldiers. He should have _known_ better.

It had been his weakness that made Marsac into what he had become. _Marsac wanted his justice? His revenge? Well, here it is._ He was reliving his sins now. The wet, the cold, the fear, the grief and guilt. Deep down, Aramis knew he would not survive it all a second time. In some obscure cavern of his conscious, he was aware that he was going to die.

 _"_ _Better to die a Musketeer…. Than live like a dog,"_ Aramis stopped where he was, swaying dizzily as he realized that this was the place. He looked around, seeing ground soggy and unsteady with mud and air that was foggy with dark rain softly flooding the ground. All of a sudden, it shifted until it wasn't. It was as it had been all those years ago. The pellets of rain turned into soft flakes of snow.

The menacing trees, large and sculptured, turned into slender skeletons, bereft of life. He was not alone, but surrounded by lean and young bodies. Some had eyes staring up into a sky bathed in early morning gold. Others stared at Aramis, and their lips moved in silent pleas for help. The glowing timbers from their fire still glowing in random embers on the ground. The white snow turned blood red beneath him, and his heart ached with such agony that he dropped to his knees on the spot.

"I'm sorry," Aramis whispered then, speaking to Marsac and the twenty dead on that day. To God and himself. To Athos and Treveille. Porthos and D'Artagnan. He whispered it to the little girl he had cradled in his arms earlier that night. "I'm very sorry." What he was sorry for went unsaid. He was sure all of his loved ones would know.

Aramis did not feel it when he collapsed, the side of his face burning when it touched the chilling snow, eyes pointed at one spot. The spot where Marsac had staggered into the woods five years ago, sobbing. For that reason, he also did not hear distant voices screaming his name as the sun slowly descended over the hills, and bathed him in gold.

 _"_ _Aramis! Aramis!"_

Marsac was there. And Aramis smiled a bit as he closed his eyes and allowed his soul to stumble after him, as it should have then.

* * *

In the end, it was D'Artagnan who saw Aramis first. But as had been their spree that night, he spotted him when it was too late to prevent their brother from slipping in the mud, and tumbling headfirst down a hill that would surely break his neck.

Later, Athos would only be able to recall the terrible pit of horror that exploded in his throat as he soundlessly cried out. Porthos's own horror was expressed as he lunged first before also skidding in the mud. D'Artagnan catapulted himself over Porthos's body, arms outstretched as he ran toward their plummeting brother seconds before he vanished over the edge.

"Mis!" He screamed, skidding to a stop so near the edge that he had to grab a tree to prevent himself from joining Aramis. Athos finally found his voice, and the ability to move. He made his way forward and grabbed D'Artagnan's jacket, fear of him falling forcing him to yank their protégé behind him protectively.

"D'Artagnan, do you see him? _Do you?"_ He demanded, staring into the darkness, heart thumping.

"No," D'Artagnan gulped, craning his neck. Athos felt his knees tremble.

"D'Artagnan, I'll never forgive myself if he's…" he whispered. This time it was D'Artagnan grabbing him, his hand a steadying pressure on his shoulder.

"We will get to him Athos. You said it yourself. There's no other option," he pointed out staunchly. Athos could only shake his head. He had seen the terrible things this world did to you, he had witnessed the incredibly horrible circumstances that death and grief left for the loved ones of either the deceased- or the survivors. And he couldn't _believe_ that he had let it happen to Aramis. Wasn't losing one brother painful enough? He had to lose two?

"Athos! D'Artagnan, move!" They turned as one to see Porthos already making his way down the slope.

"Porthos, be _careful_ for goodness sakes! You all will be the death of me!" Athos called back, noticing the slickness of the hill Porthos was descending. He could have pulled out his hair. D'Artagnan threw his hands up but wasted no time in embarking after their brother.

"And wait for us, would you?" D'Artagnan added. _Aramis- be alright. Don't you dare be anything but alright!_ Athos thought as he slipped helplessly down the hill after them. Sliding down the hill safely was nerve-wracking, and what was more, it took them an hour to do it and by the time they hit the bottom, their legs trembled and ached from the hard work.

Athos put his hands on his knees, panting, as soft rays of sunlight peeked out from the treetops. The rain had turned to mist, chilling their bones. "I see blood," D'Artagnan croaked, sounding as exhausted and terrified as they all felt. He froze and followed D'Artagnan's gaze. Indeed, a small puddle of rain had accumulated on some leaves, and he recognized the haunting curls of human blood in the pinkish water.

"No body. That's a good sign," Porthos informed them hopefully. Athos gave him a wry smile.

"He can't be far," he rasped, though his body moaned in protest. His heart roared with fire. No other option. All for one, and one for all. If they all died of pneumonia, it would be better than losing one to despair.

Porthos was already moving, and Athos allowed him the lead. He and Aramis had an uncanny bond- he would be the first to spot him.

Once more D'Artagnan beat them both, but the way he alerted them was rather unfair. The younger boy let out a small scream when they finally found their way into the small alcove where they had found Aramis lying barely alive five years prior.

"ARAMIS!" Athos jumped, startled by the sudden noise. He gasped when he saw the figure that D'Artagnan ran toward, lying face first on the ground, his fingers splayed in a gesture of reaching out, as if he had been trying to grab someone's hand.

Athos felt his blood chill. D'Artagnan landed on his knees next to Aramis. Porthos knelt on his other side. Gently they flipped him over, and without his conscious consent, Athos was suddenly kneeling besides Aramis's head, bandaging the seeping wound. _He must have gotten it falling_ , he assumed, his mind shocked into passive observance. D'Artagnan and Porthos both pressed fingers against opposite sides of Aramis's jugular.

Athos gulped, but forced his voice to be calm. "Well?" He demanded.

When Porthos looked up, his eyes were wide with relief and twinkled with joy. "He lives," Athos must have swayed from shock because Porthos grabbed his shoulder to steady him. "Athos, he's alive!" Athos closed his eyes with relief.

"He isn't going to stay that way long though," he stated, his blood afire with determination.

"None of us are," D'Artagnan added, pointedly shaking his soaking curls out. "We have to get out of the elements. Back to Paris," he said.

"Aramis doesn't have much time…"

"Agreed. Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

Growing grapes had a pungent scent that filled every nook and cranny of the nose and tickled the senses.

Aramis would recognize it anywhere.

He looked down, astonished at the scent that he had grown up with- his father's wine vineyard, and realized that he stood in his old hiding spot. A small hole in the dirt he had scrubbed beneath all the vines. It was now a mole nest, barely big enough to hold his own two feet. "Well, would you look at that?" Aramis laughed, then looked up as the air shook with ringing. Church bells.

In the distance, beyond the green and purple speckled foliage, he could see the tops of buildings and homes. In the middle, a pointy spiral speared the sky, and the silhouette of bells could be made out through the colorfully stained glass. He could hear the choir singing in sweet Latin, and closed his eyes as he inhaled the sweet summer air. Home. A place of simplicity, faith and strength. Light and life.

He had grown bored of it as he grew older but… He should have guessed this was what _his_ heaven would look like. "Where are all the women?" And he should have known that only one person could be there to meet him. Aramis swiveled in place and laughed when he saw Marsac making his way towards him, fair trampling the grape vineyards as he made his way forward.

"Marsac!"

"Aramis, you old dog! What kind of place is this?" They collided in a hug, and Aramis buried his face in Marsac's shoulder. His old friend must have sensed his pain because he tightened his grip.

"I'm here, Mis," he whispered.

They hung on a minute before letting go. Aramis stepped back, inconspicuously wiping his eyes with a back of his hand. "I don't know," he admitted, looking around. "I expected to wake up in the pits of Hell… What am I doing here?" A thought occurred to him and he squinted suspiciously at Marsac. "What are _you_ doing here?" He demanded.

"You aren't dead, you fool," Marsac replied dryly, rolling his eyes. Aramis blinked, uncomprehending.

"I'm not?"

"No, Aramis. Though, you're asking the right questions. What the hell do you think you're doing?" Aramis threw up his hands.

"I don't…! I felt something call me back to Savoy. I…" he hung his head. "It is my punishment for what I've done. Marsac, I- I killed you. I betrayed you, and let everyone else down. I'm so sorry," he said. Marsac let out an unimpressed noise of exasperation.

"I don't want your apologies, Aramis," he replied sharply, crossing his arms. "Partly because its odd. You've never apologized to me before. Not even when you accidentally shot me in the thigh that one time. Remember?" Aramis smiled tremulously and nodded.

"I still hold that it was your fault."

"And you were right- as always," Marsac's eyes softened. "Aramis, I failed _you._ Not only did I _leave_ you that night in Savoy, I then came back into your life and brought all of the darkness with me. I should apologize to you, my friend. I was a coward. You were the braver one." Aramis shook his head as tears sprang to his eyes.

"I shouldn't have let you walk away from the life of a Musketeer… We could have gotten through together. Then again," he sighed. "I should have demanded that we be on watch that night too. Had I done that…." Aramis felt his voice crack with pain, and he turned away, back to the church bells ringing in the distance. "I used to hate the monotony of this place," he admitted to his friend.

"I remember you telling me."

"It was so full of light and simple pleasures. Church. Family. Animals and the wilderness. The vineyards," he gently touched the leaves of the one closest. "I was supposed to be like that. My father bore it into me, and perhaps it might have been better, but… There was also pain. Like the vineyards," he gestured to the dark and twisted undergrowth.

"I… I used to have an older brother," Marsac's eyebrows disappeared beneath his bangs with surprise. Aramis had never told anyone that- not even Porthos.

"Used to?" Marsac inquired with a quiet gentleness.

Aramis nodded, and squeezed a grape between his fingers, anchoring his sanity to the feel of it crushing beneath his fingers. "I did not leave the brothel where I was born until I was fourteen," he breathed, a hitch stumbling in his throat. Marsac was the only person he had ever told about his early beginnings. He was pretty sure Porthos had pieced together some of it, but the truth was… Difficult to face.

"My mother begged me to leave her, even though I had never met my father. He seemed kind enough. But when he brought me _here_ ," he gestured to the vineyards, breathing deeply. "I discovered that I had a half-brother. Abel. When I was sixteen, bandits came to kidnap all able bodied young men into their ranks. My brother- Abel- was only twenty. Strong, smart. He was not meant to live a violent life," and now Abel was gone.

"He wanted to be a farmer, live simply. He wept when they dragged him away, he _begged_ … And my father let them take him. He didn't lift _a finger_ ," Aramis's voice cracked with loss. "My father stole me away from my mother and I had no say. I watched bandits drag Abel to a life he hated, helpless. I was helpless when Isabel's parents sent her to lands unknown!" Aramis kicked a stalk, took a feral pleasure in noting how it tipped over. "I swore long ago that I would never just watch as innocent people were threatened. I couldn't do that, Marsac. I couldn't live…"

"With cowardice?"

Aramis looked up and shook his head "Helplessly," he corrected. "My father hated me for it," he smiled humorlessly. "Isabel left me for it, and when I was young I thought that I would win every fight. Survive every battle. I have done so- and discovered that…." He inhaled a shaking breath as he faced the brother he had lost- and the conscious he now had to answer too. "Whatever light I may have had is gone."

Marsac arched his brows, shifting weight from foot to foot worriedly. "I've discovered that you're a greater idiot than I originally believed."

"I'm serious, Marsac."

"Me too."

"You don't _understand!"_ Aramis cried in frustration, tearing at the curls in his hair. The churchyard music sounded like funeral bells and the howl of hungry wolves now. The sweet-smelling vineyards transformed into the throat clogging scent of fresh blood. "None of you understand, I didn't save you. It was a _choice,_ Marsac. I could have decided to shoot you in the leg, the arm. Something to disarm you perhaps, but I didn't. I killed you…"

"I wouldn't have stopped, Aramis…"

"You shouldn't have started! I should have… I could have…"

"You could have done what, Aramis? What could you possibly have done to save me, to save any of them?"

Aramis's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the terrible things he had seen for the sake of the fight. "I could have died instead. Why did I make it when other good men fell, Marsac? Perhaps your appearance was the Lord's Way of telling me that I was never meant to survive that day," he choked, and suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder.

Marsac grabbed his chin between two bruising fingers, forcing Aramis to look him in the eye. "Or maybe it was God's way of saying that you- and _you_ alone, Aramis D'Herblay- were worthy of life in His eyes," he contradicted, with such fierce confidence that Aramis felt his despair shake.

"Why?" He demanded.

Marsac snorted. "Have you noticed the three men you trail everywhere? How strong a bond you have? I could practically feel it in the air the minute that I saw the three of you together. That trust Aramis, you were a part of creating that, and…" Aramis did not want to think about his brothers right now. It was entirely too painful.

"And given enough time, I will be the one to tear it apart, just as I did with you."

Marsac stiffened. "That was my own folly, old friend," he reached out to press a warm hand against Aramis's shoulder, holding him steady as he gazed into his eyes. "You did everything you could, Aramis. Everything that you were supposed to do- and every one of us would have thanked you for it if we could." Aramis shook his head, wetness stinging hot along his eyelashes. His heart throbbed-and then began to ache with an agony that made him gasp as he grasped his chest.

"Ugh," he groaned as he fell to his knees, one arm outstretched in a mute entreaty for help. He felt Marsac grab his arm, kneeling beside him as he stared down at Aramis with panic and concern.

"Aramis! Listen to me. You have to take a breath. You aren't breathing and its making your heart seize, Aramis _please,_ breathe…."

* * *

"C'mon Aramis, _breathe_. Why isn't he breathing?" Treveille shouted at the woman who was kneeling at Aramis's side. Athos stood behind her, holding a tray of tonics and towels. Even from his position at the bed's foot, D'Artagnan could see the tray shaking. Porthos and Treveille stood on either side of the bed trying to restrain Aramis's desperately thrashing arms.

"He's been doing this all night!" Porthos reported over the unintelligible gurgles emanating from Aramis's mouth. D'Artagnan ducked as his foot flailed free, nearly striking him in the face.

"He hasn't stopped _breathing_!" He pointed out.

"He's having a fit, you fools!" the woman snapped. "This is only the beginning if he's…" The rest of her statement turned into an affronted gasp as Aramis's arm flailed from Treveille's grip and smacked her in the face. D'Artagnan resisted the urge to laugh, leaning forward so his full body rested on Aramis's legs.

Not for the first time that night, D'Artagnan was glad that they had sent for Treveille. Aramis had begun shaking minutes into their journey, his head shaking such was teh power of his chills. Desperate, the three of them had stopped in the nearest town to find help. It had come in the form of an old inn and a boy willing to act as messenger. The other man had arrived not ten minutes earlier, Constance in tow. She was rushing around in the inn downstairs, collecting blankets to pile atop Aramis.

"If he's _what,_ madam?" Athos growled when Treveille had grabbed Aramis' arm again, securing it to the mattress. They had only been in the small town of Rochelle for a few hours, forced to stop there by Aramis's growing temperature.

The woman- an elderly midwife who acted as the town medic- swiped a sleeve across her face. Thin trickles of sweat were rolling from her wig. She snatched a bottle from Athos's tray, shaking it angrily. "I'll be honest with you lads," she said. "He's dying," the door creaked open and Constance ran in in a flurry of cold air and blankets.

D'Artagnan looked up, met Porthos's horrified expression. Athos looked undaunted. "You don't know Aramis," he replied. The woman snorted as she pressed an ear to Aramis's chest.

"His lungs have frozen. His heart is going too fast. He can't breathe," D'Artagnan felt his breath hitch in his throat. Aramis, _dying?_

"What can we do?" He choked out, desperate to help.

"Say a prayer for his eternal soul," she replied, giving him an odd look as if she supposed he was possessed. D'Artagnan felt a scream building in his throat. They couldn't have come all this way just to lose him.

"We aren't sayin goodbye! There has to be something we can do!" Porthos roared, obviously of similar opinion.

As if his voice had triggered something, Aramis's eyes suddenly snapped open. A guttural whine issued from his throat as his back arched, sounds of alarm coming as he stared up at the heavens with vacant, wide eyes.

"Aramis!" Porthos yelled.

Athos leaned over, shouldering the woman out of the way. D'Artagnan heard harsh breathing to his right, looked up in time to see Constance drop to her knees beside him. Quickly, she began stuffing a blanket around Aramis's legs, folding his feet into the warmth. "Aramis, can you hear us?" Athos yelled.

Aramis only continued to shake, white froth bubbling on his lips. His back arched, as if he were being pulled upward by an invisible string. Suddenly, he collapsed back onto the bed with a strangled yell. His body relaxed into the cushions of the mattress, and his eyes fluttered shut. His chest fell with a long exhale.

And did not rise again.

D'Artagnan tripped over his own feet as he scrambled upright. Treveille and Porthos both leaned forward, eyes wide. Constance ran to the tray, fumbling through tonics. "Do you have smelling salts?" She demanded of the mid-wife. The woman shrugged, wiping her palms on her apron.

"Aye. It won't do you much good though. He's dead," she told them, unsympathetically.

"Stop!" Athos's tone was a command. "He is not dead! I _forbid it,"_ the last words came out as a growl as Athos grabbed Aramis by the shirt front hauling him into a sitting position.

Constance's fingers hovered above the tray. "Which one is it?" She snapped. The woman pointed to a green hand sack. Constance snatched it, ripped open the leather twine and shoved the entire bag beneath Aramis's nose. D'Artagnan took a step back as the smell assaulted his own senses. From their knees, Porthos and Treveille gagged. Constance turned away, panting through the nausea.

Athos didn't seem to notice or care. "Aramis," he addressed the unconscious man. "I know you can hear me. It's time to wake the hell up, you understand? That's an order," he shook their brother roughly, jabbing a fist against his chest. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to abandon us. You wake up and come home right now. I swear I'll come after you, do you hear me brother? I swear I will," he threatened.

Constance laid a hand on his shoulder. "Athos…"

"Damn you, Aramis! Wake up!"

* * *

"Why are you being difficult?" Marsac demanded.

" _I'm_ being difficult!?" Aramis demanded, voice rising indignantly. "You're dead because you didn't want to let people help you! I don't even know how _to start_ breathing again!" Marsac threw his hat to the side as if preparing for a fight.

"Just… Breathe, you idiot!"

Aramis snatched the hat from his head as well, flinging it to the side. His right hand rested on the pommel of his sword. "You think I want this?" He shouted. "To be lying here, dying like this? I don't want to die!" Marsac flung his hands into the air, exasperated.

"Could have fooled me! What do you want then?"

Aramis opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish. Meanwhile, he felt as if his heart were thundering in his chest, drowned out only by the distant voice of Athos yelling.

 _"You don't get to do this. You don't get to abandon us."_

Abandon them? Like Marsac had him? Like Treveille had their entire regiment? Like the King and Isabel and Adele? Never. He could never.

But sometimes, they didn't get to make their own choices.

Aramis' shoulders slumped. "I just want it all to end," he finally whispered. Letting his eyes fall to the soft and fertile ground of growing things. An entire field where life began and ended anew, without any grief or guilt to bar its cycle. That was how humans were meant to be, too. Fruitful in their time, useful even in death to the next generation. He had left Athos and Porthos with something. D'Artagnan. Now the Three Inseperables could begin anew.

It was the cycle of things, and his cycle had ended.

"The pain, the guilt, the betrayal, the fear. I did what I wanted, Marsac," he looked up, noticed that the golden sun had lowered a bit in the sky. Now it winked at them, bidding adieu. He smiled tearfully. "I lived an… Uneasy life. An honorable one, I hope. Now its time for me to let go… The mission that began at Savoy has to end," they met eyes, green to brown. "I am that end."

Marsac stared at him for a long moment. Then, he sighed. "Oh, Mis," he breathed. "It all will end. One day, but not with death. Death ends nothing, not pain or guilt or sorrow or fear," his boot scuffed the ground, helplessly. "I should know," he whispered. Aramis inhaled sharply.

"You're still…?"

"In pain? Of course," he grinned. "Joy is not the absence of sorrow, just as bravery is not the absence of fear. Joy, like bravery, is being sorrowful and afraid and rejoicing anyway. Look at me, old friend," Aramis obeyed. Marsac took him by the arms, fingertips digging into the skin beneath his shirt.

"You'll not end the grief of Savoy by dying today. You'll just be prolonging the pain, seeding it anew in the next generation," he saw a flash of D'Artagnan's smile, melting into a scowl of permanent rage, betrayal. Aramis gasped and stumbled back. He tripped over a vine, and landed hard on his backside. The setting sun cast Marsac's shadow over him, an overbearing guardian angel.

"The only way to end that mission is to live despite it. To prosper because of it. To be a brother, just like we always wanted," Marsac lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. His smile was sad but also resolute. As if he were heading into a mission of his own. Perhaps following the sun to its nightly cave. Perhaps lifting the moon into the sky. Aramis wished he knew, but a larger part of him desperately didn't seek the truth.

Not this time.

"Thank you for being my friend," Marsac whispered, kneeling beside him. He offered Aramis a hand up.

"Marsac…?"

"But it's time for you to leave _me_ now." Aramis looked around, blinked.

"Here?"

"Better than a snowy forest, wouldn't you say?" In another life, that would have startled a laugh out of him. Marsac grabbed his arm and hauled him upright. Aramis dug his fingers into the front of his shirt like a toddler clinging to their mother's skirts. Fear screamed in his veins. He studied Marsac's clear eyes for deception, for anger. He saw neither. Just a genuine… Peace. Peace with himself and the events that were and had unfolded.

Aramis craved that peace. The acceptance that the cycle still had space for him to sow more seeds. More chances to serve and love and learn. "Will I ever see you again?" He asked.

Marsac snorted. "I'm going to the gardens of _angels,_ Aramis. Why would you be there?" He inquired, smiling a bit uncertainly, as if he half doubted his own words. Aramis had a retort for that on the tip of his tongue, but he decided against voicing it aloud. This time. Porthos surely would have. Aramis just rolled his eyes.

"Just answer the question, you selfish idiot."

"Maybe. It depends."

"On what?"

One side of Marsac's mouth lifted in a blazing smile. "If you decide to breathe again."


	5. Chapter 5

Porthos has watched his mother die.

She had withered away before his eyes, refusing to take bread or broth, pressing their few meager coins into his hands as if they burned her skin. _"Go,"_ she had begged him, through days of starvation and coughing. The phlegm in her lungs frightened him, made him suck in every bit of air like a drowning man.

Breathing hadn't come easy to everyone in those days.

 _"_ _Leave this place,"_ she had told him, trembling. _"Go."_

He hadn't understood as a child. Had believed she only meant for him to leave the house so as not to see her perish. His mother had always been selfless that way. However, as he aged, he began to understand that she had meant more. She had been trying to tell him to escape. To leave the Court where the only law was poverty and the only protection indecency. She had wanted more for him, not just a band of thieves but brothers. Family. A home.

Porthos had found those things, and as he watched everything slip away again, a grief like no other ate out his chest. He couldn't even speak, which was a strange change of events. Usually he and Aramis were the talkative ones, but now he had fallen stone cold silent while Athos wouldn't shut up. He was still shaking Aramis's limp body, threatening and shouting and pleading. Constance and Treveille had moved to his side, each with a hand on his shoulders but he shoved them away.

Kept yelling obscenities. The mid-wife had already deserted them; traveling across town to the embalmer, she said. Porthos could not conceive the thought.

Aramis, to be embalmed. This was his best friend.

He hadn't been dead more than ten seconds, but it felt like ten years. Porthos wondered if this was what Hell felt like. Every minute and breath stretched infinitely. He glanced at D'Artagnan, who appeared equally as shocked. His fists kept clenching in Aramis's blankets, his face was pale and his breathing shallow.

Where Athos was loud, burning with his own rage, D'Artagnan seemed to be frozen with astonishment, the truth sinking like sludge into his conscious. Porthos… Porthos didn't know what he was. But it hurt.

"Athos," he called, feeling as if he were somewhere else. Outside of his body maybe. Far away. "Athos, stop it," he reached out numbly. Felt Athos's sleeve and tugged. "Ay, knock it off!" he repeated.

Athos ignored him.

"Damn you! You are a deserting, selfish bastard!" He was shouting, eyes large and furious.

"Athos, don't!" Even Treveille's sharp command could not break through Athos's fog of wrath. Porthos tugged harder at his sleeve.

"Athos. Brother, you have to let him go now," He said.

"I told you! I told you not to stick your nose where it didn't belong! Now look at you! You've left us! I hope you rot in _Hell_!" Something in Porthos snapped. His tug became a heave.

"ATHOS!" He screamed, yanking so hard that Athos's sleeve ripped, and his entire upper body lurched forward into Porthos's embrace. Aramis dropped like a ragdoll between them, flaccid and pale. Athos was trembling, eyes glassy. Porthos's fingers dug into his arms. "Don't you say that!" Porthos growled. "That's _Aramis._ Don't you dare doom him to eternal torment."

D'Artagnan watched their interchange like a trapped rabbit, wary and confused. "He left us!" Athos hissed, glaring at their friend's body.

"No," Porthos replied, calmly for all that his soul was splitting in half. "We lost him. He didn't leave us, Athos. He got lost, and we didn't come to his aid in time," D'Artagnan turned his head away with a muffled sob. Constance rushed to his side, ran a comforting hand through his hair as she shushed him. Athos blinked a few times, as if he had been smacked.

"We lost him," Porthos breathed. "Now we gotta let him go."

Athos shook his head. "What?" he stuttered. "What? No. No, Porthos…" He looked down, and Porthos saw the remnants of his splintered heart in his eyes. "You're my brothers," he mumbled. "You're not supposed to leave me. Not you too," he fisted a hand in Porthos's shirt, bowing his head as if under a great weight.

Porthos felt sobs building in his throat. A few hot tears rushed down his face, like raindrops. Athos seemed to sink in on himself, staring into Aramis's face for a long second before he shook his head. Without another word, their leader yanked himself from Porthos's grip and staggered to his feet. He vanished out the door in the next heartbeat, thundering down the stairs.

Treveille raced after him. "Athos! Athos, wait!" Porthos heard him yelling.

Porthos sank into the bed beside Aramis, lying on his back. He faced the ceiling, tears trickling unhindered down his face. He could hear D'Artagnan's soft weeping and Constance's desperate attempts to soothe him. Porthos didn't move to do the same. He knew there was no comfort for them now. One of their own was gone. Lost.

The hole in his heart seared with the knowledge. Porthos did not realize the keening wail filling the room was from him until his throat began to ache. One hand reached up to cover his own mouth as the tears turned to sobs. He had to silence the pain. Maybe then he could face it, as he had with his mother. Then he could go and leave this place.

After what felt like centuries, he felt a hand on his arm. He shook his head, realized his eyes were closed. "Not ready yet, Captain," he ground between clenched teeth. He wasn't ready to give Aramis away to the embalmer.

 _Please not yet. I'm not ready._

The hand on his arm flexed. It was freezing cold, trembling. Athos? "P'rths," someone mumbled. "Are you…" A heavy swallow. "Al'rih?"

That wasn't Athos. Porthos's eyes snapped open as he surged into a sitting position. He met Constance's eyes first. D'Artagnan still had his face buried in her shoulder, his sobs quieter but no less poignant. Over his shoulder, Constance's face had exploded into relief. Relief and joy so real it made Porthos's heart leap.

 _Please. Don't let this be a cruel trick._

Porthos looked down to see concerned and glazed brown eyes staring back up at him. Aramis's chest was rising, slowly, hesitantly, as if still getting used to the action. Aramis's eyes lashes fluttered, and he let out a low moan. "Thos?" He called. "You good? Wha…" He glanced around. "Wha's happenin?"

Porthos just gawked. Constance recovered faster than any of them did. "D'Artagnan!" She shrieked. "D'Artagnan, look! _Look!_ He's alive!" She cried, shoving at D'Artagnan's shoulders until he raised his head. When his eyes landed on Aramis, they widened in shock.

"Mis?" He croaked. " _Aramis?"_

"Yes," Aramis sighed, licking his dry lips. "Is me. Where… Where are we?" Porthos exhaled his grief in a single whoop of joy. The next minute, he dragged Aramis into his arms, laughing and crying in tandem.

"Aramis!" He cried into his brother's warm neck. Aramis let out a huffing laugh, pushing weakly against his chest.

"Tickles," he complained.

"I thought we'd lost you," Porthos babbled. "We all did. Aramis, you scared the hell out of me! Not to mention Athos and D'Artagnan."

"Don't forget about me," Constance laughed, appearing over his shoulder. D'Artagnan, not wasting a second, rammed into Porthos's other side, wrapping gangly arms around them both. He was laughing, a tad bit hysterically.

"I should slap you!" Constance threatened when he and D'Artagnan moved back. Porthos wrapped his arms around his brother, lying him against his chest and smoothing the sweaty curls from his forehead. Aramis blinked at them, confused. D'Artagnan gripped one of his hands, grinning.

"Wha I do?" Aramis wheezed, sounding hurt. Porthos scowled. His forehead was still too hot, almost burning. His fever wouldn't be breaking anytime soon.

"You stopped breathing _without_ my permission," Constance informed him, crossing her arms and leveling him with a stern glare. Aramis just squinted at her dubiously, as if suspecting that she was lying to him for nefarious purposes. Finally, Aramis just sighed and squeezed D'Artagnan's hand.

"Sorry?" he tried. His apology made Constance melt.

"Oh, you," she sighed, caressing a lock of curly hair from his head affectionately. "Always getting into trouble."

"Athos!" D'Artagnan suddenly gasped, grabbing Porthos's arm. "We have to tell him!" Porthos gasped. Their other brother was still living in torment, believing that they had failed one of their own. Constance stood, gathering the edge of her dress into one hand determinedly.

"I'll bring him and Treveille here," she promised. "Get him some soup and bundled in those blankets. This fight isn't over yet."

"Thank God," Porthos and D'Artagnan breathed in unison.

"Cheers to that," Constance agreed, hurrying from the room. D'Artagnan began collecting the rumpled blankets, lying them gently over Aramis. Porthos, meanwhile, tried to position himself against the head board. He wasn't leaving anytime soon, and this position would probably be more comfortable for them both.

Against his chest, Aramis sniffled. "Porthos?" he asked again.

Porthos grinned, so extremely glad to hear that voice again. He would have wept had he been a different man. As it was, he couldn't stop smiling. "I'm here."

Aramis craned his neck, fumbled awkwardly through the blankets. "D'Art?"

D'Artagnan set a hand upon his arm. "I'm here too."

Aramis nodded. "Where's… Athos? Athos alr'igh?" He whispered.

"Constance went to get him," D'Artagnan replied. He went to the bedside table, and grabbed the cup of water they had brought in. He tipped the cup to Aramis's mouth gently. "Drink, mon ami. We're happy to see you," Porthos snorted at the understatement. D'Artagnan grinned at him, eyes twinkling.

They had their brother back. Everything was well.

Aramis accepted the water gratefully. His eyes were drooping. Porthos wanted to beg him to stay awake. _Stay with me,_ but he knew the fever would probably wreak havoc if not defeated soon. Sleep was good for him. "Hey," he murmured into Aramis's ear, gently squeezing his arms. "Stay awake Mis. Just for a minute, huh? You have to see Athos still," he said. Aramis nodded slowly.

"What were you thinking?" D'Artagnan suddenly blurted. "Running off like that?" Porthos smacked him upside the head.

"Ow!"

"Right _now_ , D'Artagnan?" Aramis scowled, blinking as if to better see something in front of him. "He's feverish. He probably doesn't even remember…"

"Savoy," Aramis interrupted. "I'se at Savoy. I r'member. R-ready to die. Like the oth'rs," Porthos heart skipped a beat. He tightened his hold on Aramis. Aramis yawned, patted his arm.

"Saw Marsac," he explained drowsily. "Marsac… Gone," he slurred. Porthos sighed. _That deserter._ "Gone," Aramis repeated, without sadness. "In t vineyard."

"Vineyard?" D'Artagnan mouthed, glancing at Porthos. He shrugged.

"He… He sa-said I can end it. The mas'cre. Last one, ya know? I can live," Aramis smiled a little. "I have to live." Porthos swallowed the lump in his throat, pressing a kiss to the side of Aramis's head.

"Yeah," he rasped. "Listen to Marsac," maybe not such a deserter after all.

He heard Constance's urgent voice downstairs, followed quickly by the stomping of feet along the staircase. D'Artagnan smiled.

"Athos!" he cried just as the other man fairly fell into the doorway. Treveille and Constance appeared over his shoulder, panting, a moment later.

"Is it true?" Athos whispered, swiveling his gaze like a mad man. "Aramis?" His voice cracked when he saw the other man lying against Porthos's chest like a child, squinting crossly at the intrusion. Athos exhaled a shuddering breath.

There was a rim of red around his eyes, as if he had been weeping. His clothes were disheveled, torn. Porthos glanced at Treveille, noted the bleeding lip and bruising around his eye. Ah. Athos had lost it a little, it seemed.

Athos crossed the room and sat beside Porthos. "Thos," Aramis greeted, reaching out. Athos gripped his hand between both of his like a lifeline, resting his forehead against their clasped palms. "'M h're," Aramis said as D'Artagnan and Porthos both put a hand on Athos's back. He was perfectly still, silent.

But they all knew that out of their brotherhood, it was Athos who had appointed himself the protector, the eldest. Aramis came at a close second, but Athos's role never had to be voiced. It was just known, and thus any injury or hurt they sustained scarred Athos like a dagger. They were his weakness, as surely as he was theirs. That was why when Athos looked up, his eyes sparkled with tears.

"Thank God," he said, leaning over to place a kiss on Aramis's cheek, the formal benediction of respect between nobles. Or brothers.

"You…" Aramis licked his lips before trying again, louder. "You tol me to rot in hell," he recalled, sounding amused. _Of all the things he could have recalled_ , Porthos inwardly groaned. Constance snorted behind them.

"Athos was just angry," D'Artagnan offered, as if that excused it. Porthos harrumphed, glaring at Athos over Aramis's head. "You know how he has mood swings. He didn't mean it," one side of Athos's mouth quirked into a rueful smile.

"Yes, well, I've done a great many things lately I regret," he reflected, glancing at Treveille's bruised eye.

"Was't angry," Aramis assured him. "Tell you t' go to 'ell all the t-time, in m'head," he slurred, with a teasing lift of the lips. Porthos barked a laugh.

"That makes two of us!" He chortled.

"Three," Treveille added.

"Everyone," D'Artagnan and Constance argued in unison.

"How flattering," Athos snorted. His eyes softened as he set a hand on Aramis's shoulder. "Forgive me?"

"Oh Athos," Aramis breathed, his eyes finally fluttering shut. His breathing evened out, and Porthos felt him go completely limp against his chest. But not before he whispered: "Always."

* * *

Aramis woke up when Porthos's breathing hitched. The small moan that followed slowly drew him from his dreamless sleep into a land of obscure shapes and dim light. He blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the low light.

He saw D'Artagnan first. The boy was across the room, leaning against the fireplace that looked eerily familiar. Aramis gave a start. That was Treville's fireplace.

It seemed they were home then.

The Captain's personal lodgings were the largest in the garrison, and well hidden. One could only access it through a secret door to their left, one hidden behind a cleverly placed wall decoration in Treveille's office. Only the Musketeers knew that it was there, mainly because almost all of them had been given rights to the space before.

Treveille loaned it out without hesitation or complaint whenever one or more of them were injured. The open space meant more than one bed could be dragged inside, and the ready fireplace and cushioned chairs were useful too. Athos, currently, was employing one of those cushioned chairs.

He was sitting next to Treveille's book case to the right of the fire. His chin rested on his chest, the slow rise and fall of it indication enough of Athos's exhaustion. His arms were crossed, a closed book resting lightly on his outstretched legs. Aramis could make out the curved edge of a feather over his head and smiled. That _damned_ hat.

He glanced around as a small snuffling sound signaled Porthos. True to form, someone had dragged a spare bed in here. Porthos occupied it, his back to Aramis and large body a mass of darkness. His breathing was steady, but the wet snore bespoke of congestion. Aramis frowned, fingering the blanket around his waist.

He glanced at their third brother, noted his melancholy face in the light of the fire. Apparently he had been given watch. He leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, watching the flames dance with uncharacteristic patience. He had a near empty glass in his hands, swishing the contest thoughtfully. Aramis cleared his throat. D'Artagnan gave a start and swiveled.

"Hey!" he whispered, quickly making his way to Aramis's side. He snagged a chair on the way over, setting it next to Aramis before plopping into it himself. "How do you feel?" D'Artagnan asked, squeezing his arm. His warm eyes made Aramis relax, marginally. D'Artagnan wouldn't look so cheerful if Porthos were seriously harmed.

"Better," he replied. His toes still felt chilly, and his limbs shook with weakness, but otherwise there was no pain.

"Are you hungry? You've been asleep for three days," D'Artagnan told him. Aramis blinked and felt contemplatively at his stomach. He didn't register being hungry, but surely someone had given him something since the last time he had been awake.

"Three days? I haven't woken once?"

D'Artagnan ran a hand through his long hair. "A few times," he admitted. "You've had a fever. Whenever you did wake, it wasn't for long and you didn't seem cognizant, had Athos and Porthos worried out of their minds," Aramis nodded. That explained much. For one, why he felt as if he had been asleep for _three years_.

"They haven't slept in all that time, have they?" He inquired, sending an exasperated but fond glance at his two sleeping brothers. D'Artagnan grinned.

"The Captain was finally forced to drug their wine," he told him. Aramis felt the laughter bubble in him until it came out in a quiet chuckle.

"Treveille has never disappointed me," he murmured. He had been wondering who managed to convince Athos and Porthos to sleep while he was injured. Athos and Porthos were sometimes frighteningly protective of him, they would have stayed awake for ten days if the need arose. Aramis knew. He had seen them do it.

"So? Food? There's some broth," D'Artagnan offered again. Aramis thought for a moment before nodding.

"I'll take a little" he said. D'Artagnan was out of his seat before he had finished his statement, rushing over to the fire, which, now that Aramis was paying attention, had a cauldron burning above the flames. He arched a brow.

Innovative.

D'Artagnan ladled some of the steaming broth into a bowl and handed it to him carefully. "It's hot," he warned.

"So I see," Aramis agreed, as steam coated his face in a fine film of water. He breathed it in, enjoying the brief warmth that sprouted in his chest and the hearty smell of vegetables and meat. "Is Porthos sick?" He inquired, spooning a bit into his mouth. He exhaled in relief and gratitude. It was good.

"Him _and_ Athos," D'Artagnan agreed. "It's from all the cold," Aramis felt a pang of guilt, but D'Artagnan did not seem accusing. He just sat, watching Aramis eat with palpable relief. "They'll be glad to see you're awake," he breathed.

"And why are you awake? Didn't you fall ill, too?" Aramis demanded.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I've worked in rainy and cold conditions before. Farm boy, remember? I had a queasy stomach for perhaps a day, but ginger root took care of it. That and Athos made me rest," a quick eye roll. Aramis snickered. "That's why Treveille didn't drug me. _I_ know my limits," Aramis very much doubted that but the boy sounded so proud he didn't have the spirit to argue.

"As you say, pup."

"Would you stop calling me that?" Aramis sipped the last bit of soup before handing D'Artagnan the bowl and fixing him with a firm look.

"No."

He smiled when D'Artagnan stood, grumbling, to put the bowl where he had found it. When he returned to his seat, Aramis waved a hand dismissively. "You should sleep," he told him. "As you can see, I am alive and fed…"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Aramis gave a start, surprised to have been interrupted. However, D'Artagnan was looking at him with such intent that he found himself sifting through his recent memory.

"My memory is fuzzy," he admitted. "I remember Marsac, going back to … To _Savoy._ Then waking up in… Ah… An inn? Yes. I remember waking up in an inn. I thought something was wrong with Porthos," though he couldn't exactly recall why he had assumed as such or if there had been. "Then Constance threatened bodily harm to my person and Athos barged in with Treveille, who had a black eye," something didn't add up. " _Why_ did Treveille have a black eye?" He blurted.

"Athos punched him," D'Artagnan explained, matter of fact.

If possible, Aramis was even more confused. He stared at D'Artagnan, waiting for the rest of the story. When nothing was forthcoming, he continued. "Porthos squeezed the breath out of me for some reason. You looked like a drowned puppy, but of course, _you know your limits._ Something about Athos and hell?" Had they all been drunk? If they had, Aramis had certainly missed a very eventful night. "D'Artagnan, what happened?"

D'Artagnan sighed and leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands in his lap. "How do I explain this? We thought you were dead." Not drunk then. Aramis blinked once, twice, tried to recall more but he could only recollect a brief period of coldness. Similar to Savoy, except...

Marsac. He fumbled for the cross around his neck, sudden comprehension slamming into him.

"Did I have no pulse?"

"For the longest time. Me and Porthos and Constance all checked. Things became… Chaotic, after that," he could very well imagine. Aramis studied the dark lines around D'Artagnan's eyes and mouth, noted the tiredness in his shoulders. This boy had already lost a father. Aramis felt guilty that he had should have suffered over his loss, too.

Then he looked over at his other two friends, and cringed. He couldn't even _conceive_ of life without them. No matter how over bearing, odd, and infuriating the two men, their friendship kept him sane and cheerful. To die first wouldn't be so bad but to watch them leave this earth?

Aramis shook his head. "I don't suppose they've pre-written their lecture?" He sighed.

"We didn't know if you would survive long enough to hear it," his gaze returned to D'Artagnan, and he was surprised by the darkness in the young man's eyes. D'Artagnan leaned in closer. "You left," he breathed, fists clenching.

"Yes," Aramis returned the stare. "I did. I wasn't… I was in pain, D'Artagnan. I did not leave because I doubted your friendship," he hurried to assure the boy. "Yours or theirs. I left because I doubted that I had a place in this world anymore. That I could be amongst you and not be your destruction at the same time."

"Why would _you_ be our destruction?"

Aramis barked a sour laugh, then cringed as his chest muscles ached. "How much did they tell you about Savoy?" He croaked when the pain had passed.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "It seems like a lot but… Not as much as they could have, I suppose."

"Did they tell you those men were beneath my command?" D'Artagnan gave a start and Aramis scoffed. Tears pricked at his eyes, fresh and hot, but he inhaled a shuddering breath, scrabbling uselessly at his blankets. The softness helped ground him in the present, in the breaths he was taking right now.

 _"_ _The only way to end that mission is to live despite it. To prosper because of it. To be a brother, just like we always wanted."_

"When the Musketeer regiment was formed," Aramis began. "I was one of the original ten hand picked by Treveille. We were a close group, living and training together for a year before the captain garnered more. When others started coming, us ten were dubbed _the commandments._ It was Porthos's idea, I believe," D'Artagnan snorted. Aramis smiled.

"We deserved it. We strutted round, feeling special and telling all others what to do. In those days, the Musketeers handled unimportant duties. Escorting the King back and forth from the Cathedral. Delivering missives and such. I was then, as Athos is now, Treveille's unstated second in command. He was grooming me to take his place," D'Artagnan nodded.

"He _is_ wise beyond his years," he quoted Aramis. The warmth in his eyes made Aramis look away, back toward the comforting bulk of Porthos's presence.

"As our numbers grew and reputation spread, so too did the danger of our tasks. Treveille sent twenty of us- including the original ten- to Savoy as a training exercise. It was not the first time I had commanded men," he scowled. "It will be the last. I led them to their deaths, D'Artagnan. No guard. No night shift."

"You had no way of knowing…"

"Never!" Aramis hissed. Porthos groaned and Athos inhaled a sharp breath before settling into sleep once more. Aramis lowered his voice. "Never believe you are safe outside these walls," he told D'Artagnan. " _Ever._ I have been a soldier for most of my life, D'Artagnan. There are assassins and robbers and madmen and forces beyond your understanding or control out there. If nothing else, let my failure teach you this: outside of this Garrison, you are _never_ safe. You always have a reason to assume the worst will happen. Do you understand?"

His voice was harsher than he usually liked; the lesson darker. For the most part, Aramis was content to let Athos lead their youngest brother in the ways of sadness and melancholy. He was rather used to it, after all, but this…

This lessons was _his._

D'Artagnan's eyes were wide in the firelight, but he nodded. "I understand." He breathed. Aramis relaxed. "But I don't agree." And now he was about to kill the boy.

"What?" He demanded.

D'Artagnan shrugged, the corners of his mouth quirking into a resigned half-grin. "I have you three," he replied, simply. "Wherever I go, whatever happens, I'm safe in that. I know you _thought_ that too," he broke in just as Aramis opened his mouth.

"But Aramis, you survived. No, you were _saved_ by one of your brothers and though I still think he's a coward and a deserter, he _kept you safe._ I'm sure the others would have done the same. Those twenty Musketeers were killed because of court politics, but _you_ lived because of your brothers." A tear trickled down his cheek.

"And they're all dead, D'Artagnan! They…" _Left me._

D'Artagnan took Aramis's hand into his own, reading the unspoken words. "We won't." He whispered. "We _won't,_ Aramis. You have my word," a bitter smile curled the edge of his mouth. "But you almost did."

Aramis shook his head. Wet trails made his cheeks itch and his breath hitched in his throat. That was the same thing Athos had said, but it wasn't... He didn't mean it to be... "Porthos blamed himself," D'Artagnan went on, eyes flicking to his boots and up again. "You could see it in his eyes. Treveille had to tackle Athos on the street because Athos was preparing to put a bullet in his own skull. That's why he got punched," Aramis inhaled sharply, looking away when his stomach recoiled from the mental image.

What would he have done, if he had woken to find one of his brothers gone, dead by his own hand? Aramis covered his mouth as vomit threatened to slither up his throat.

The tears spilling down his cheeks increased. He shook his head, reeling from the blow. "I..." D'Artagnan's voice cracked. "I don't know what I would have done. I already lost my father I don't think I'm strong enough to… To lose something so important to me again," and now it was Aramis gripping his hand in comfort. D'Artagnan squeezed back.

"I know you were in pain, Aramis. God, I can't even _imagine_ the anguish you must feel, the betrayal. You're a better man than I for forgiving the Captain so easily, much less Marsac, but… You _must_ know that you are not a scourge upon this earth, you are not a danger to us, you do _not_ deserve anything less than happiness! You're our brother. If you don't deserve to live, what does that say for the rest of us?" D'Artagnan gave him a watery smile. "All for one, right?"

Aramis nodded, breathing deeply in a desperate attempt to compose himself. When he had made sure he _wasn't_ going to vomit, and swiped away the tear tracks on his face, he dared speak again. "Right," he agreed, and then snickered a little.

" _Damn,_ D'Artagnan, we should employ you to use those brown eyes and silver tongue more often! Particularly on women. I think I would have preferred Porthos and Athos's long-winded lecture," he smiled when D'Artagnan laughed, now both of them swiping away tears.

"Maybe its just because we're two romantic souls," the youngest suggested.

"I doubt it," Aramis sniggered, then grew serious. "Every word you just said is true, my friend. You're a wise man, and I'm afraid I must beg your forgiveness for being so selfish," D'Artagnan shook his head.

"You _never_ have to beg my forgiveness, and you don't have a selfish bone in your body," Aramis opened his mouth to argue. "But I forgive you, if that's what you want," it was, Aramis realized. He needed it. He craved forgiveness, he had ever since Savoy all those years ago and the yearning had not left him since. He reached up to gently swipe a strand of black hair from D'Artagnan's face.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Now," a new voice piped in, sounding appropriately emotionless. "We just have to discern if _Porthos and I_ forgive you. Porthos?" Athos removed the hat from over his face, sitting up to stare at them with owlish eyes.

"Athos," Aramis breathed, relieved. "Good. Come yell at me. D'Artagnan has my heart strings weak."

"Well, maybe I could help him yell at you," Porthos groused, sitting up with a weary groan and turning to glare at D'Artagnan. He, too, was swiping away a few tears that had leaked into his beard. "If I weren't so weepy-eyed right now. D'Artagnan, I didn't know you were a poet," and now they had embarrassed him. D'Artagnan blushed, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.

"I… It's… How long have you two been awake?" He demanded.

"A few minutes," Athos declared, swiping some lint from his uniform busily. "We heard you two talking and wanted to know how your lecturing skills were," his gaze shifted from Aramis to D'Artagnan and back again. "It seems they're good," he drawled, but Aramis did not miss the way his eyes hesitated on him, as if making sure he was truly there and not a figment of Athos's imagination.

"Good?" Porthos harrumphed, turning to face them fully. " _I'm_ crying! Aramis is right, you could be a real advantage in the lady's department! You're so _sincere,_ too," he groused.

"I was sincere!" Aramis patted his hand.

"We know, brother," he soothed. "It's a touching aspect of your personality we find endearing. Isn't it, Athos?"

"My heart is bursting in ways it never has before," Athos replied, insincerely.

"Didn't even know he had a heart, so there's some improvement there," Porthos mumbled, before he gave Aramis a striking smile. "Speaking of having no heart, you aren't going to greet me?" Aramis couldn't help but smile back at his oldest friend.

"Porthos!" he stretched out a hand. "How do you feel? Let me check your temperature," Porthos stood and knelt by his bedside, gripping his hand and pulling him in for a tight hug. He pulled away before Aramis could press his palm to his forehead, however.

"Ah, no you don't," Porthos growled, even as his eyes danced. "You don't get to check on my health. I'm still angry with you, despite D'Artagnan's poetry."

"It wasn't…!"

"Porthos," Aramis pouted. "You know I worry. At least tell me how you're faring," Porthos glared at him silently for a long minute before giving in.

"I'm fine, Mis," he promised, leaning in so that Aramis could gently feel his forehead. He gave a sigh of relief when he felt only a natural warmth. "My fever broke last night. Athos's too. We were just exhausted. Oi!" he yelled, reaching for D'Artagnan threateningly. "You let the Captain drug us?" D'Artagnan laughed, ducking Porthos's grip and executing a gentlemanly bow.

"Oui, monsieur. I dubbed it a wise choice for everyone involved," he purred.

"I'll show you wise choices," Porthos chuckled dangerously.

Aramis peered over his large shoulder at Athos, pointing at him. "You. Come here," he ordered. Athos's eyebrows shot up, but he nonetheless obeyed, coming to sit beside Aramis on the bed. Aramis promptly unclasped Athos's pistols from his hip pouch, placing them smugly at his back. "I'm holding unto these for you," he told their leader.

Athos did not look perturbed. Porthos nodded in agreement, and D'Artagnan hummed his assent. "For how long?"

"For the rest of your life," Aramis let his voice soften along with his heart. "Brother, you know I never would have wanted that for you. Not even in death. I would rather rot in hell," he reminded him. Athos shrugged, a bit of emotion cracking through his calm demeanor.

"Just as you are aware that you, Porthos and now D'Artagnan mean more to me than my own life. I will not exist in a world where I have failed you Aramis. I… I cannot," Athos's voice broke at the last word and Aramis's heart snapped in half.

"Oh, mon ami," he moaned. "You have never failed me. You never could. It was my own selfishness…"

"Don't you start," Porthos warned him. "It wasn't selfishness, it was pain. Pain undeserved. We know, Mis, and we were ready to be there for you. We should have been, from the start. The minute Marsac walked back into our lives," Porthos's expression melted into shame. "We always knew something wasn't right about the story Treveille told you about the Spanish. We should have helped you search for the truth."

"And shouldn't have doubted you when you found it," Athos added. "D'Artagnan was right, you don't need to ask our forgiveness, but we do need to ask yours."

"You are forgiven always," Aramis replied immediately. "None of this was your fault, _or mine_ ," he added when he saw the way Porthos screwed his mouth into worry. "It was just… Painful. It's going to get better. After all, my brothers are at peace now," he glanced up, to the ceiling and the skies above. He could _feel_ it; they were at peace now. Marsac _was at peace._

It was time he tried to find some of that himself.

Athos was studying him with knowing eyes. He squeezed his shoulder. "We'll be here with you," he swore, softly. "Until you find that contentment yourself. Or maybe we'll find it together."

"All for one, Athos. We're _definitely_ finding it together," Porthos corrected. Athos dipped his head in quiescence.

"Well then," D'Artagnan cried, sinking into one of the seats beside the fireplace. He set his feet upon the table in front of him, closing his eyes luxuriously. "We're all alive and safe. Together and breathing," D'Artagnan added. Aramis smiled. Yes, he _was_ breathing. "What else is there to say?"

"Other than get your feet off Treveille's table before I behead you _for him?_ Not much," Athos snapped, standing to his feet to reclaim the other chair by the fire. Porthos chuckled and patted Aramis's leg.

"Go back to sleep," he told him. "We'll wait till morning to get up," but Porthos didn't move himself. Just scooted against the far wall to watch as Athos and D'Artagnan bickered like two old hens.

"You know, I liked you better when Treveille put laudanum in your wine."

"I _still_ like Constance better."

"Hey!" Aramis chuckled and settled into his pillows again, listening to his friend's voices with relish. He had almost lost all of this, but he wouldn't. By the grace of God, he was here, they were here, and everyone was breathing. The cycle continued, and somewhere in the vineyards of heaven, twenty-one Musketeers laid and smiled down upon their surviving brother. In his continued breaths, they had found peace.

At last.

 ** _The End_**


End file.
